New England and Del Hombre Lane
I was worried. I hadn't done longer than 20 minutes in... months? I had to listen to old sets to remember road material. And then when I got to the room, it was a dynamic I hadn't seen in a long time. Mostly white, everyone in the same income class.
That was the thing that threw me about New York City when I moved here ten years ago. The audience members had almost nothing in common with each other. At one table, millionaires. At another, kids from the General Grant houses. I got used to performing in a less personal style, ready to shrug off anything. So, to perform for this working class New England town, where the audiences had many shared experiences was a throwback to the old days. And I had to let my guard down a bit, in a way that is not recommended in New York City. I only had three shows, it took me two to find my sea legs.
It was fun.
Americans spend 8 hours a day in front of screens. (TV, computer). I am one of those people, that's disturbing. It all feels so important, I need to read all eight of the stories I have tabbed in my browser. But at the end of the day, what did I do? Sit in my corner of the couch and read stories that I have already forgotten. A link to Natasha Richardson's 911 calls is given the same weight as a story about how the world is reacting to America's stimulus package. You can hardly tell what's really a news story anymore.
I had a paper route when I was 12. Cherry Lane, Alderwood Road, Del Hombre Lane, Roble Road and Honeytrail, the group of then-hip condo townhouses built near the Pleasant Hill Bart Station. Rolled papers in the morning, carried them in this awkward cloth sack apron, rode my bike over from Juana Court, threw the papers in their respective driveways and collected money every month. I was never bitten by a dog or molested by a customer. Not even in Honeytrail, which now seems like the kind of place where Chris Hansen could host Predator permanently. Once, an old lady invited me into her house on Del Hombre and showed me memorabilia from her life. She had been an actress. Almost famous. She had small parts in movies, from the 40s, if I remember correctly. I thought it was neat and then vowed to be famous enough so that if a papergirl met me, she would recognize me immediately and scream.
I wish I could remember her name. I could probably look it up in county records the next time I go home. I know the house. It's the least I could do.